


Scar Tissue

by ScarletteStar1



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Hannigram - Freeform, Longing, Love, M/M, One Shot, Pain, Pining, Still a better love story than Twilight, Violence, super unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 20:59:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18396248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: Emotional pain is more savage than anything physical, and yet it has no physical agenda, so specific wound. Had it a bodily wound, it could be sutured, tended to, and healed. It could be borne and tolerated. But this? This is intolerable.





	Scar Tissue

When they were first together, Molly found his scar fascinating. While she would not ask him to recall in lurid details what Hannibal had done to him, she would often stare at it. With tentative fingers, she would stroke the albino rat snake that slithered across his abdomen. 

“Does it hurt?” She had asked.

“No,” Will had lied. “Not any more.” 

Truthfully, the scar tissue and damage beneath his skin still aches frequently, especially when it rains or if he overworks himself.

“I wish he were dead for what he did to you,” she whispers one night. 

“Don’t waste your energy,” Will replies and kisses her forehead. 

When he feels her breath settle into the even and heavy pace of her sleep, he closes his own eyes. He allows his mind to click into the groove that has been well worn, as though water has trickled over rock for century and created a little stream. It’s easy to find and sink into. It’s a familiar place; almost comforting. 

Lights pulse behind his eyes as the reel begins. He hears his own heart and then he hears Abigail’s shaking breath. “Where is Hannibal?” Will asks. Abigail says nothing but her eyes flicker slightly over Will’s shoulder. He turns to see Hannibal, soaked in blood, presumably from Jack. “You were supposed to leave,” he hisses as anger and terror rise in him. 

At this point in the reel, he splits from himself so he can watch, so he can allow the evidence to speak to him and piece together the crime. He watches Hannibal’s face twist in rage. 

Overwhelming emotion fills the intelligent psychopath. It floods every nerve of his body in an unfamiliar torrent. He knows not what to do with it. He feels betrayed and worse, he feels spurned by the one human he allowed to see him. He cannot live with this level of emotional input. There is no where to place it. Emotional pain is more savage than anything physical, and yet it has no physical agenda, so specific wound. Had it a bodily wound, it could be sutured, tended to, and healed. It could be borne and tolerated. But this? This is intolerable. 

He pulls Will in to him in a fierce embrace. For a moment, Will thinks it will be okay, that they will leave together and find the place Hannibal has made for them. He surrenders to Hannibal’s kiss, not caring that Jack is dying in the pantry, not caring that Abigail is watching. He tastes the metallic tang of blood that drips from Hannibal’s nose. Their teeth clash together as the kiss becomes heated and Will clutches at Hannibal’s waist. Fuck, he wants him. He wants him so fucking bad. How did it take so long and all of this to make him realize it? He wonders if he had recognized his feelings for what they were, if he could have spared lives, if he could have spared them all of this. 

But the taste of Will’s mouth, flavored with blood and rain, is more than Hannibal can bear. Betrayal surges in him. He will make a wound. He will give this pain a place in the world where it can be seen and felt and known for all it fucking is. 

With surgical precision, he cuts Will, and thrusts him to the floor. And then it occurs to him he can create not only this physical wound, but also an emotional wound identical to the one with which he suffers. “Abigail, come,” he says and she obliges. He slices into her to inflict not only pain, but death. 

He walks out the door into the rain, leaving the broken remains of his rare gifts bleeding out on his kitchen floor. One will survive and one will not. This is his design. 

Will relives this repeatedly, in identical detail, as though it is his favorite bedtime story. And at the very end, as he always does, before he loses consciousness and drifts into sleep, he mouths Hannibal’s name against the flesh of night.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading my little Hannigram drabble. I absolutely live for comments and would adore hearing from you if you feel inclined to say hi. xoxo.


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